


nothing but tired

by handyhunter



Category: Elementary (TV), Saving Face (2004)
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-14
Updated: 2012-09-14
Packaged: 2017-11-14 05:18:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handyhunter/pseuds/handyhunter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan receives an unexpected wedding invitation</p>
            </blockquote>





	nothing but tired

Joan sorts through the mail as she waits for the water to boil. The junk mail goes in the recycle bin, which takes care of most of it, except for a letter addressed to her. It’s card-shaped, actually, and the envelope feels expensive. It’s red and gold and entirely unexpected. She flips it over again to make sure it’s addressed to her.

Holmes reaches past her for the kettle and pours hot water into the waiting teapot. It’s chrysanthemum, for her sore throat and because he doesn’t need any more caffeine. 

“Who’s getting married?” he asks, leaning on the counter. “It is a wedding invitation, isn’t it?”

Joan slits open the envelope and pulls out a matching invitation. The insert is gold paper with red text, Chinese on one side and English on the other. “‘Dr and Mrs Shing invite you to celebrate the wedding of their daughter, Vivian Shing to Wilhelmina Pang,’” she reads out loud. She remembers Wil, who was a new resident when she left, and Dr Shing, of course. 

“Friends of yours? No, of course not,” Holmes answers himself before she can. Sometimes she hates when he does that. “If they were, you’d be happy, not confused.”

Joan checks the tea and determines it needs a few more minutes. She glances at Holmes and shrugs. “Dr Shing was a...colleague. His daughter is a dancer. The woman she’s marrying -- Wil -- is a doctor too. I’m not sure why they’ve invited me.” It’s not that they parted on unfriendly terms, but Joan hasn’t made much effort to stay connected to her former life. She keeps up with the gossip through her mother, whose visits to Planet China are infrequent, but evidently highly entertaining. She must have dropped a hint or two in Mrs Shing’s ear. “I’m going to call my mother.”

Holmes raises his eyebrows at that, no doubt recalling all the times she elected not to answer her phone when her parents have called, but Joan ignores him, except to say, “Don’t drink all the tea.”

*

“I’m fine, everything’s fine,” Joan assures her mother when she picks up.

“Good. Are you eating enough?” 

“Mom.” Joan can’t keep the exasperation out of her voice, even though she knows her mother only asks out of concern and habit. She tries again, “Yes, I am very well fed.” She thinks of the hot dogs that are standard baseball fare and decides her mom doesn’t need to know the details of her eating habits.

“Your father wants to know if you’re coming home soon. We can go to yum cha or barbeque. He just bought a new grill.”

“Um,” Joan sits down on her unmade bed, wondering what it is about her parents wanting to see her that makes her feel vaguely guilty. “I can’t for a few weeks, remember? My new client...”

“You can bring him!” 

“Who?” Joan hears her father, loud and clear.

“Shh,” says her mom. “A patient, don’t get excited.”

Joan stifles a sigh. They’ve been over this too. “I don’t think so,” she says, trying to picture Holmes at her parents’ house, and just can’t. “But the reason I called... Mom, do you know why the Shings sent me a wedding invitation?”

“Oh, good, you got it!” She can practically hear her mother beaming across the phone. “That Vivian, she was always so lovely, wasn’t she?”

Joan murmurs an agreement and wonders if there’s any way she can convince her mother that she can’t go. 

“You can stay with us for the wedding,” continues her mother. “Maybe stay a few extra days?”

The commute to Flushing isn’t far, but Joan doesn’t have the heart to refuse her mother outright. “Okay,” she says and ends the call. Maybe something will come up in the meantime.

*

She ends up going to the wedding, of course. It’s a beautiful, lavish affair. Wil’s very little sister is the flower girl, escorted down the aisle by their mother, who continues to scandalize everyone by refusing to marry Little Yu, even though everyone knows they live together. Joan hears this from about five different people in the time it takes everyone to find their seats and for the music to start playing. Both brides are lovely and clearly in love. More than a few people, her own mother included, have to blink back tears. Even Holmes is on his best behavior and doesn’t utter a peep throughout the ceremony. Joan checks on him out of the corner of her eye a few times to make sure he hasn’t fallen asleep.

Later, at the reception, Joan contemplates the curious glances thrown her way and wonders if her mother still gets them, when the man she married is in attendance. There are a few looks in the direction of Jay, as well, who Joan learns is Wil’s neighbour and good friend. He’s dancing with the flower girl, much to her delight.

“Hi, Joan!” Mrs Yao waves her over. Good manners and respect for one’s elders dictate she must go. She tugs Holmes along too, because if she has to suffer, so does he. 

“Hello, Mrs Yao. Mrs Chen. This is Sherlock Holmes, my...” She tilts her head, considering. “My personal shopper.”

“Eh?” asks Mrs Yao.

Mrs Chen enunciates carefully and loudly, “Personal. Shopper. Not boyfriend.” The aunties understand more English than they let on, but the conversation lags, with a near-silent Holmes -- Joan fears Holmes has been stunned into silence, which is better than the alternative -- and a Joan who doesn’t particularly want to prolong the visit. The aunties lose interest rather quickly and, as they walk away towards an unsuspecting Raymond Wong, Joan hears Mrs Yao ask, “What kind of name is ‘Sherlock’?”

Holmes looks at Joan. “I wasn’t aware it was necessary to bring a boyfriend.”

“It’s not,” says Joan, grumpily. “But the aunties like to pair off everyone. Poor Raymond gets dragged to these functions all the time.” They watch the aunties swoop in on poor Raymond.

“I’m bored,” Holmes complains quietly. He tugs on his shirt collar until the top button pops free. “No one would miss us if we left.”

Joan looks around and finds her parents talking in a small group of their friends. Holmes is right, and since she brought him as her get-out-of-here excuse, it would be a shame to waste it. She tells her parents a sudden work-related problem has come up and she can’t stay the weekend after all. She kisses her mother’s cheek, promises to visit more often, and says good-bye to her father, all the while ignoring the feeling that she’s letting them down.

*

The next morning does not find Joan any more at ease. She shuts off the first alarm, then the second, and contemplates just staying in bed all day, but that’s not a good habit to get into again. Holmes doesn’t know that she has a third back-up alarm set on her cell phone, since he unplugged her main alarms. It’s not that she doesn’t trust him, it’s that she’d rather not be caught unawares again. 

She makes herself get out of bed to shut off her phone alarm as well, before it goes off, because she truly hates the sound of her alarm clocks, and decides she might as well face the day. She makes her way out to the living room where Holmes is sitting on the floor, reading the newspaper, surrounded by his televisions. Three of the five are on, set to different channels.

She can’t say it’s soothing, but when she doesn’t try to focus on any one thing, it all kind of fades into a dull background roar that’s too loud to for her to hear her own thoughts. She’s not sure if Holmes has the televisions on for that reason, or if he actually is taking in all the information. After a minute of the cacophony, though, she has enough and turns them off. Holmes doesn’t look up from his reading.

Joan looks out the window, at the bright clear sky, and then back at Holmes. “Well?”

Holmes turns the page of his newspaper. “I haven’t said anything.”

“I know,” she says wryly. “You’re too quiet. I don’t like it.”

“What could I possibly say to make you feel better?” He sounds genuinely curious, behind his wall of newsprint.

Joan rubs her temples. “I don’t know, Holmes. I’m going for a run.” 

She scrounges up her running clothes from the pile of clean laundry she hasn’t yet folded and put away -- Holmes’ style of housekeeping must be contagious -- and is lacing up her runners at the front door when he streams out of his room, pulling a shirt over his head. He grabs a second shirt off the back of the sofa and pulls that on as well, only belatedly sniffing it; evidently it’s clean enough because he leaves it on. 

He steps around her to grab his scarf and coat, and holds out hers as well. “Oh, good. You’re dressed. Let’s go. Gregson called. We have a case!”

Joan thinks about it for half a second, then allows Holmes to help her into her coat because she can always run later. She smiles at him, catching his excitement, not at someone else’s disaster, but at having something to do. “Okay.”

Holmes grins back. “You can run there, if you like, but I think your car or the train will be faster.” 

She holds out her hand and he drops the keys into her upturned palm. “You’re still not allowed to drive.”

“But I can pick the music?” he asks hopefully, as he shuts the door behind them.


End file.
